10.30.2014

Creo en unos triángulos / Lorenzo García Vega

I believe in some triangles.
I believe in some triangles!
Standing by a window. The window facing the little leaves of the tree. I believe, I repeat.

In other words, rain, rain, rain, a wig.
It’s stupid to start talking about a wig, but it’s raining.

While everything smells like the din of the past: butter —boiled—, but barely recalled.

Thrown in the patio, flooded by rain, the dry triangles I believe in.
However, I don’t know what formula could’ve sucked the color out of those triangles.
(I laugh with some invisible cubist teeth —I laughed for the first time, after the dentist made quite a few extractions—, but I won’t talk about that right now.)

Waiting, then, like this. Stripped of all my knobs. But what knobs am I talking about?

Although, thinking more about it, how can I depend on a belief? Well, despite my belief, there could be a road where I might find a lung made of rotten caramel, in the dry triangles. Road... and what might Kandinsky say, then? Road, finally, where we might even, maybe, find a strange smell. It could happen, yes, just like I’m saying it could, all it would it take is for you to stop paying attention for a second.